Misfit Theater Company 2

15. Le Grand Gesture (Part Two)

We pull into the parking lot, marvel that Thatcher's car made it to another destination, and run across the lot to the safety of the sidewalk outside Le Grand Macaron. He takes my hand. The worries of Patti and Moth leaving us for Hollywood melt away. I have Thatcher Gorsky, and—at least for now—that's all that matters.

"Bonjour," the cashier says as we walk through the doors of Le Grand Macaron. The restaurant is small and narrow, but decked out in Parisian decor. To the right of us is the long display case of all the baked goods, mostly macarons of course, and the cash register. On top of the display case next to the wall, the case where all the ready-made sandwiches on croissants are, is a tower of what I can only hope are fake macarons, since they are always there, alongside an Eiffel Tower statuette.

Along the half pink and half black and white striped wall to the left are all the seats, little black and white bistro sets that look like they came right off the streets of Paris. Framed black and white photographs of Parisian sites hang in gold frames on the pink half of the wall, sites like the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Seine, and Notre Dame. Instead of the typical fluorescent lights you'd find in strip malls like this, the owners have installed small chandeliers, like the one in Patti's bedroom, only with clear plastic gems instead of red.

As far as strip mall bakeries go, this is by far the most romantic I've seen, and the fact that I know Thatcher doesn't care for it but brought me here anyway makes it all the more lovely.

"How can I help you this evening?" the cashier asks. She's clearly a high schooler, but I don't recognize her. Maybe she's a senior.

Thatcher turns to me, waiting for my response.

"We're going to bring some back for Patti, right?"

He smiles and places his hand on my back, for encouragement maybe, because he says, "Go ahead and order your own box, and then we will get another for Patti. Whatever you don't eat, bring home." He turns to the cashier. "Can I just get one of those turkey sandwiches? Yeah, that one's fine, thanks."

"And the flavors for your boxes, mademoiselle?"

My eyes widen at all of the day's flavors, but I know I'll just go back to my usuals. "Can we get two of the boxes with the same flavors in both?"

She nods. "Oui, of course."

"Great, thanks. Can I get salted caramel, pistachio, chocolate, blueberry lavender, lemon, and raspberry?"

Thatcher leans down to whisper, "I may actually steal a bite of your salted caramel."

I quickly kiss his cheek while he's at my level. He can have the whole thing for all I care, I'm just thankful for this time together.

The cashier rings us out, $30.00 in total, and it feels like a sucker punch to the gut—I have no idea where Thatcher is getting the money to spend on this. Guilt begins to creep into my heart like a hot sludge, but then Thatcher takes my hand, unphased, and walks me to an open table in the back. We like sitting in the back of places, so that we can have a bit of privacy.

"You're sweet," I say as we sit. I open the box and pull out the salted caramel macaron. "Your reward, mon amor."

"Why thank you, mon petite cherie."

"What's cherie mean?"

"No idea, I heard it in Beauty and the Beast, so I'm assuming something Belle-related."

I laugh. "I'm glad your fight with your dad didn't throw you off for the evening. This is nice that we're here together and that you brought me here. I was expecting just to drive around in your car or, like, go down to McDonalds again."
He brushes his shoulders off. "Nothing but class with me, baby."